The Miller's Tale
by Novelizationer
Summary: A semi-adaptation of the Matrix comic originally written by Paul Chadwick.


_Disclaimer: I do not claim ownership of any copyrighted material._

**The Miller's Tale – **Adapted from a Matrix comic by Paul Chadwick

The boy waits. It is part of the discipline.

Zion is a _place_ of discipline, since it will take a great deal to defeat the power of the Matrix. So he remains unmoving, though every muscle yearns to squirm and flex. His bald head falls halfway in shadow, in contemplation. Yet the suppressed agitation is not anxiety, but its obverse: excitement and joy.

Time stretches as all assembled are told, in accordance with a ritual, a story which a man behind a podium has recited word for word.

"His name is Geoffrey," the rebel begins, speaking to the crowd under an opressive rock face. "He was one of the earliest liberated from the Matrix. Many of you know the trauma, the dissappointment of that transition. For while freedom is a precious gift, it comes at a _great price_, a cost of security, of comfort, of illusion."

He takes a deep breath. "Life, real life, was even harsher in those days."

Those in attendance sit eagerly in front of their plates, ready and willing to hear the tale.

-

We raided the surface world for what we needed. Often, those who went never came back. Forays into the Matrix were no less hazardous. The system had no tolerance for the rebels and their cause, and unleashed great fury on us. We had much to learn, and those who survived these rigors fended off starvation - with the protein-rich porridge we still use today.

"Another bowl of this and I'm gonna _puke_," said one of the meal.

"I already did," spoke Geoffrey, her friend.

"I got the bowl you _caught_ it in," added another.

Life was bleak, but the war - and survival - were too desparate for time to be given over to pursuit of confort. But in a surface foray, Geoffrey came across something new - or rather, something _old_.

_Disks_, compact and plastic. They were so primitive that they carried no more data than, say, a Matrix agent's thread of hair, stirred by a virtual breeze. They contained movies.

One movie captured Geoffrey's fancy: It dwelt less on twists of plot, on the endless fascination of human interaction, than did most films. Instead, it caressed its imagery, and, in the midst of a story, made scenery and gentle, vast spectacle its focus.

The principal occupation of its characters was something strange to Geoffrey: the cultivation, and harvest of wheat. The locusts that plagued them reminded him of the insectile machines we still battle today. But what stirred Geoffrey so was the repeated image of vast fields of wheat, sunlit, waving in the breeze...

This soon became a symbol for him, an emblem that warned him. A vision of heaven, days long ago, but, should humans ever defeat the enemy, perhaps days ahead, as well. Wheat was the thing.

He'd had "bread" as a child in the Matrix, of course, but couldn't remember it's taste; perhaps the artificial intelligence behind it lacked data on its flavor. But surely, the product of such golden fields must have tasted _wonderful_.

Geoffrey began to research wheat, and bread, once called "the staff of life" for much of humanity. "We'll go here, my friends," he later spoke, pointing to a schematic of the land miles above them. "A seed depository of both heirloom and genetically engineered species."

"But what do we do with them?" asked a friend, unsure of his intent.

"We'll _grow_ them," Geoffrey replied. "The bodies in the Power Plant are bathed with ultraviolet lights; humans need that light to synthesize Vitamin D." He paused to let two and two come together. "Don't you see? We'll steal UV lamps to grow _wheat_!"

"You'll do no such thing," spoke a Zion councillor, making his way into the room as best as his aged legs could manage. "Destroying the Matrix is our _only priority_." The elder continued until he was only a few feet in front of the young rebels. "Each one of you," he resumed, "is a warrior for the cause. We can't afford to lose you for _baked goods_."

Geoffrey didn't think of himself as a warrior; he was really something of a _nerd_. But even a nerd had a dream, and dreams are to be shared. "My friends," he was heard to say among his compatriots later on, "this is no distraction - it is a vote for life."

So, with the naïve power that youth alone can lend to a human endeavor, the small group set out on what was to be the longest surface trek ever. For they would have to go _beyond_ the megacities, where machines took advantage of human-built infastructure and where parts and technology could be salvaged. To the far countryside, where no matrix-born human had ever been.

The landscape was blasted by merciless weapons and sodden with unceasing rain. Ruined cities had become scorched rubble the size of European countries. There were circular blast zones of radioactive glass so large they were visible from _orbit_ - or would be, if the unbroken drizzling sheet of clouds allowed it.

Yet at the edges of these wrecked vastnesses, life somehow persisted. The ducks, the frogs, slugs and fungi had inherited the earth.

Four soaking weeks brought the rebels to a small university town, relatively unchanged from a century before - except that every roof was a meadow of wet weed; the streets were forests. But somehow, Geoffrey led them to the right building. The rows of shelves held an infinitude of seeds, prisoners in dusty jars, awaiting liberation and life - rather like humans, glass-enclosed on the battery towers of the Matrix.

"My friends, I believe we have found our treasure cave," spoke the group leader.

They stuffed their pack as if with blood for a critical operation. They dried out. They exulted in their success. Then they got scared: The trip back was long, and now there was much to lose.

Their fears were justified. A surface seeker found them, and though they fought hard, it was no contest. Geoffrey heard the screams of his companions dying; the sounds stayed with him for the rest of his life. It made failure imposssible. But they could not die in vain.

A dozen failures followed. Then, success: He milled the seeds by hand, mixed dough, then the moment came. He handed the loaves to his collegues, and the verdict was unanimous.

They were magnificent!

Along a still-hot path of electrical lines, far from any city, they set up tents against the rain. Drawing from those lines, a thousand ultraviolet lights glowed in the dry space below. It worked: problems came and were overcome, and the children of Zion ate bread.

Years passed. Many trips to the surface left their mark. But the enterprise grew, as did the skill of the farmers and bakers. Life was not easy, no. But awaiting those returning from desparate travels to the surface, or to the Matrix itself, was the smell of fresh-baked bread. The delicious irony was that we were using the Matrix's own power!

Energy is always lost in transmission, through line friction. For years, our pillage went unnoticed. But not forever.

No human survived the inevitable battle of the wheat field. We only know what happened by hacking recordings of the attack machines had made. We know the farmers fought with fire and pride, that tents were ripped from their posts, that land was torn asunder. Would that we all die so well.

Their bones lie in the field where they fell. The machines, it seemed, deemed it too costly to carry the bodies back to liquefication facilities. Surely that field's water loving loving plants are full of their substance.

Now, twice a year, we take a portion of stockpiled grain, and hold a feast.

-

"Let us all remember Geoffrey and his compatriots," concluded the rebel, "who sacrificed so much for what we enjoy this day."

The men in the space continued to sit in front of their plates of bread. This is the signal to eat. But there is no rush, no grabbing. It is too good _not_ to savor this moment. In an otherwise gray and fearful existance, this is a glowing, joyful event.

Even the greatest warriors need such sustenance, and this fortifies the boy who will bear the _nom de guerre_, Morpheus.

He bites into his loaf. "Mmm..."

The clouded world above is no haven for sun-loving plants like wheat. But something unexpected has happened. Perhaps it is one of the genetically modified strains. Perhaps a mutation. But at the edge of the tents, some _wheat_ has escaped. Wheat which somehow resists molds, and _thrives_ in moisture.

Perhaps Geoffrey's hope may one day come to pass when, as they must, the humans retake the world above. In a few small places, a sort of heaven, if greener than he imagined, will await them.

**END**


End file.
